It was an empty store, filled with empty souls, tho the shelves, stocked, and everyone’s arms, and minds, filled with the nothing of everything that doesn’t matter. I slipped around the side aisle, away from the anxious crowd. I poured a self-serve coffee, and took it all in, like breathing again after being drowned– hearing the clatter and murmuring sounds, and the silence in between– where the truth of all things resides. People came and went, well dressed or dressed down, snappy haircuts, flat tops, and bright colors, wrinkles, and youth’s hip condescension, tho none of them interesting enough to write about.
You know, instantly, after writing enough poems, and nearly every instant, as it arrives, a new disappointment.
To my left, he wobbled, speechless, breathing loudly, his sunglasses perched crookedly on his furrowed forehead, and he fiddled with his coffee for long moments, trying to focus his eyes as his head bobbed and rolled on his shoulders. I could smell the liquor, the musky scent of ancient pain. He wore work boots, oddly small, speckled with paint, frayed denim jeans, weighing heavily, grubby with the stains of regret which never fully wipe off the skin, and I knew, instantly. Tho I felt badly for the others; not everyone can be a poem.